


A Measure of Peace

by duh_i_read (duh_i_write)



Category: James Bond (Movies)
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duh_i_write/pseuds/duh_i_read
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond has learned, at last, and constructs his armor one lesson at a time. A Post-Quantum of Solace  story in four parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Measure of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Part One: in which Mr. M talks to a blond stranger.

He had gotten as far as the foyer when he heard the steady sound of water running. It was coming through the open bedroom door that lead to the bath. He froze, debating weather to pick up the gun in the side table drawer before investing the bath. His wife would have rung if she had gotten out early. He didn't have an overwhelming sense that he was in danger, besides, who breaks in to have a bath?

Unarmed it was then, removing his shoes and moving a little further in his home, slowing a bit at the corners.

From the doorway to the bath he saw the back of a blond head floating in gray marble tub in the middle of the room. A pile of clothes lay on the floor within arms reach, a holster on the top almost camouflaged in the folds of black wool. He walked around the edge of the room, taking in the side profile of the man soaking in the tub. There are some bruises not quite healed on his cheek and rather unhealthy circles under his eye, the man's rough appearance that only deepens as he rounded on the foot of the tub, the faded cuts on his torso reviled before him. One arm shiny with pink burns was resting on the edge of the tub; the man opens his eyes when he sat down in one of the matching chairs that faces the tub.

"You must be one of the ones she's taken under her wing. An agent of some kind I presume?"

The blond man did not speak, turning off the water while assessing him with his sharp blue eyes.

'I'll take that as a yes. You know she is going to be quite upset if you're here when she arrives home."

His starring eyes were shot with red: the man was probably exhausted.

"Looks like you've had quite a rough time, lad. Perhaps you should get some rest in the comfort of your own home." He said in the way that's not really a question, the same tone he uses for the interns when they've gone and done something silly.

Not a word from the blond man, just a dip of his lashes. Rather surprising, it sometimes seems they picked the most smart-mouth fellows for the job.

"Avoidance only works for so long, lad. Unless you're here because you're seeking a measure of safety."

The younger man shifted in the water, little waves breaking against the side of the tub. The older man snorts in a mixture of amusement and sympathy: no matter how you cut it, a marble tub is not comfortable.

"And if that's the case, I'm not sure if you're going to find it here. How do you _really_ think my wife will react if she finds you here?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, "I don't know much of what my wife does, but I know enough that when the occasional oddity happens, I know it has something to do with her job. I have no idea why you are in my home, but I'm assuming it has to do with the job?"

His eyes open just a sliver. The older man makes another educated guess.

"Leave the job at the job, ok lad? It's better for your heart." Almost as an afterthought, "Unfortunate things do happen, even to people we care about.

As he said this, he rubed the indent where his left ring finger use to be, the finger he lost to some torture happy lowlife who thought they could use the husband of a double-oh to as a bartering chip for one of their friends. His wife personally took care of them, and she no longer flinches when he rubs the spot out of habit. The agent in the tub watched him under his eyelashes and sad nothing.

They sit in silence for a time, he rubbing the gap his ring finger left and the man in tub breathing deep and even as if asleep, and maybe he was, but when the elevator chimed his eyes snapped open, alert.

The older man shuffled out of the bathroom, greeting his wife as she tossed her coat on a nearby chair. He kissed her cheek and stroked the side of her face, she smiled, but the tightness around her eyes remained.

The lad in their tub is going to have the same stress lines, he thought. He hoped there would be someone to kiss those lines away.

"I don't really feel like cooking tonight, lets try that new place around the corner."

She eyed him for a moment, that same cool assessment that never goes away before she agreed.

When they came home, the bath was empty. If his wife noticed the marble tub was damp, she said nothing.


	2. Some Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Office romances are still the worst idea, really

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from the new Bond book, "Devil May Care."

Even when the whole world is your office, office romances remain the worst idea, really. What happened in Newcastle between him and Thorne was a fluke, never to be spoken of, and 00's know how to keep their secrets. 009 made it clear that he isn't normally into those kinds of things, though he seemed so enthusiastic in Morocco. He heard 004 was an amazing lay, but she demanded submission as much as possible and he didn't play that part well.

That thing with Villiers was doomed to fail from the start: surprising then, that it went on for as long as it did. Every once in a while, he would get an urge to wander down to the Archives and flirt with Villiers, if only to watch the blush creep along side his neck up to his sculptured cheekbones. But he was never able to stop with just words (that's what insured Villiers his initial transfer), so with his little used impulse control, he never made the journey.


	3. In Parties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names of the other 00's are (sorta) canonical and all gleaned from Wikipedia.

M's retirement party was held at Club Dules, an exclusive place for the old movers and shakers of London, where afternoon long games of baccarat were played and old men in three-piece suits smoked cigars and drank bourbon in antique tumblers.

An attendant in a neat black jacket took his coat and ushered him to a large room on the top floor, where several men and women in evening wear mingled. He gladly took the glass of Dom offered to him as he swept the room. On his far left, under a grand painting of a foxhunt, a familiar face raised one hand in greeting.

"This is damn near a reunion," Briony Thorne said as Bond walked up.

"Double-oh eight, always a pleasure," he said, kissing her free hand, the other lay bandaged up, hanging over the edge of the sling.

"As always, I wish I could say the same thing double-oh seven," she said with a smile, picking up her glass of champagne from a nearby table. She wore a sharp gunmetal gray strapless evening gown, and an arm sling.

"What happened?"

"Georgian mercenary pushed me out of a helicopter. Fortunately I was tangled in the harness so I didn't fall far."

"And the mercenary?"

"Oh he fell quite a long way."

They grinned at each other in a flash of brutal pleasure.

"Anyway Bond, with you here, that rises the total of double-ohs here to five. And increases the chances that someone's ego is going to be bruised and knifes are pulled."

Bond looked around the wood panned club frequented by M and her like since before the cold war. "I'm sure the staff is use to it," he said, leaning against the wall, giving him a clear view of the room. "Last time I was here, they offered us Benzedrine and champagne."

She made a noise of approval. Thorne did love her poisons.

"Who isn't here?" he inquired, from their position he could see the entire room and spotted Donne and Mason right off.

Thorne ticked off the count on her bandaged fingers, "Double-oh nine is in Hong Kong, double-oh two is still missing and possible captured, double-oh six is in a south African hospital and double-oh four—"

She leaned in, "Double-oh four is doing some deep cover work in Afghanistan. I reckon, it's because it was her M was reprimanding when she had her heart attack."

Bond had herd such rumors, "Pity. I suppose that takes her out of the running?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. She still has four to one odds."

"The betting pool never misses a beat does it?" She shook her head. "Where do you and I stand?" he asked.

"About the same. You may be M's golden boy--no pun intended--but I have a far better record for avoiding international strife."

"Don't play coy. You have more kills on record then I do."

"True, but I'm discrete."

"Underhanded."

"I'm not going to engaged in childish name-calling," Thorne said.

"Maybe if you spent less time listing to office rumors and more time doing your job, you would be odds on for this promotion," he said.

"It is just an offer. I never said I'd take it."

"Good," M said from behind Thorne, "That should make the decision much easier."

Bond tried not to look smug but failed as Thorne hastily covered her tracks.

"I never said I would _not_ take it."

M's look clearly said _I'm not buying an ounce of your bullshit_ and Bond took that as a cue to mingle. He found double-oh one nibbling on caviar on the balcony while entertain a beautiful women with what sounded like a story from his early days. Come to think of it, he had always wondered where that scar on his cheek came from.

The woman, it turned out was M's daughter, the one whose birth was rumored to have ended M's career as a double-oh. She was beautiful, naturally, taller then her mother but with the same sharp eyes and expressive mouth. When he kissed her hand, he noticed a band of pale skin encircled her left finger. She seemed too receptive for a widow, two to three months separated he guessed.

Before he could press her a little more, a gentle chiming quieted the room instantly. It was time.

The stories and praises where spoken from the current and three former prime ministers, several M16 employees and of course, the family. None of the double-ohs spoke, and if anyone had asked him why, he would have said (after a moment) that the double-ohs were men and women of action, of deceit and seduction, and matters of emotion were harder to articulate.

Formality over, they clustered around scatter of chairs where M and the current prime minister sat, Bond drifted back towards the balcony. Thorne was just inside of French doors, for all intent and purposes watching the string quartet warm up, but he noticed she was studying M's husband chat with the Prime Minister's wife.

Bond watched her, the other person M16 thought worthy of filling M's post, as he moved up to her side, he was intrigued to see something other then anger and coolness cross her face.

"I herd they met in West Berlin. She was doing deep cover work; some of our own were smuggling secrets to SMERSH painted on fake vases and he was working for some antiquities dealers and got caught up in the case. Not even a year later she was retired from double-oh status and put in accounting. She's some kind of math protégé."

Some of it he'd herd before, or found out himself, some details he knew because M told him personally and was in no position to share.

"I suppose...I suppose I just can't visualize going from the whole world as my office to a desk job. Going home everyday. Having a family."

"The world is not enough," he said, softly.

"I've spent the past seventeen years living this life, and somehow I've lived long enough to retire." She laughed again, a rougher sound, "I don't even know if I know how to live the rest of my life."

"Your not about to go zero-ten on me, Thorne? I'd really hate to call R on you."

The brief stint he had with R's sober brand of mental health in the Newcastle hospital, one that oddly enough over lapped with Thorne's own, was not something he ever really wanted to repeat.

"Don't be ridiculous, Bond. If I wanted to eat my gun I would have done it ages ago. Its just—" she paused, twirling the empty champagne glass with her fingertips, "Don't you feel odd, possibly not being a double-oh any more?"

He didn't answer right away, instead snapping his fingers to one of the clubs staff and ordering a neat whiskey and gin and tonic.

"I always expected to die on the field, to be honest. I plan to make the most of my retirement."

The drinks arrived, and he handed Thorne hers. "Who is she?" he asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"See, the fact that you know exactly what I'm talking about and no so subtly deflected says to me that this moment of bitter uncertainty, which I may say is not very becoming of you, has to do with a women," he sipped his whiskey.

"Well if a blunt object such as you can read me oh, so well, maybe it is time to retire," she still didn't answer the question and they both knew it. She lowered her voice to a murmur.

"I've been seeing this women—an archivist at the British museum—she asks what I do and I've never—"

No more needed to be said. "I can't help you there, Thorne, I suggest to talk to M about that," he said, and walked away.

He was not the person to be asking such question to, and Thorne of all people should know that. He downed his drink and slipped through the crowd towards the washroom.

The room was tiled in yellow and white, with a bored looking attendant cleaning his nails. Double-oh one was there, drunk, nodding at him before returning to zipping his trousers.

"You really going to retire, Bond?" Donne asked.

"Perhaps, if I don't upgrade from a number to a letter," he said, taking a piss and noting that the antibiotics really cleared up that rash.

"I hope you do, Thorne's a cold hearted bitch for sure," Donne said.

"I wouldn't let her hear you say that, Donne," he said, coming to stand next to the other man at the sink.

"Not afraid of her, 'specially with her arm like that," he declared, taking the towel from the attendant.

"Didn't you here about the time she bit out a man's jugular?" Bond said, doing the same.

"Rumors and exaggeration," Donne said, tipping the attendant and walking out with Bond.

Donne sauntered over to the coat check. People were leaving, clustering around the elevators in their furs and wool overcoats. He spotted M's husband and daughter sitting in two leather wingbacks around a table low, watching the dwindling crowd. He nodded to the older man, who nodded back. The daughter watched him cross the room with a little more then interest on her face, but retirement or not, he was sure M would personally cut off his balls if he approached her daughter like that.

Speaking of which, the lady of the evening stood, a glass of what he guessed was bourbon in her hand. She and Thorne were talking in low voices on the balcony, and they both glanced at him before returning to their conversation. M patted double oh eights arm and turned to him, "Were you looking for me, James?"

"I don't think myself or Thorne could do half as good a job as you did," he said.

"From you, that's high praise indeed." She said, touching his arm, "Thank you, James." He thought for a moment she would embrace him, but the moment for that possibility was gone, she was gone, heels clicking against the polish wood floor.

"God, your worse at sincerity them I am," Thorne remarked. He said nothing, noticing how M's husband handed her coat as she moved up to him.

"That is why, whichever one of us gets chosen, won't be half as good as her."

"Not at first, it'll just take a little work of a different sort," she said to her glass.

The statement was far too reflective for Thorne: M must have advised her similarly to the way she advised him.

He nodded, suddenly tired of this party and wanting nothing more then a quiet drink and perhaps a few pills in his flat.

"I'm leaving Thorne, do you want a lift?" she shook her head.

"I don't want you knowing where I live. Plus it's in the opposite direction of Chelsea," she said, lifting a hand at Donne as he left. "My girl is working late, so I'll just walk over to the museum and get some air," she gestured at an attended and asked for her coat and his.

"Would you like an escort?" he asked as they waited for the lift, not completely serious. Thorne laughed, as he draped her black wool coat over her shoulders, "Not from the likes of you."

The gilded doors chimes open and they walked through the lobby into the crisp night. Thorne called out over her shoulders as she took to the streets.

"Goodnight, Bond."

"Goodnight, Thorne," he called out. Donne and Mason, who were leaning against Mason's Bentley, echoed his goodbyes.

"Bond, Mason and I are going to play some poker and have a few, want to join us?"

"After the last time, I've learned my lesson, Donne."

"Come on, we got out of that Egyptian jail just fine," the other agent said, donning his gloves. Bond gave him a look, and Donne laughed, sliding into the passenger seat of Mason's car. The Bentley peeled off, a red-coated valet didn't bat an eye as he handed Bond his keys.

Back in his flat, Bond keeps thinking back to Thorne, and her mood tonight. Not that he can blame her, he's had more then his fair share of love affairs, not the one for the jobs, ones that really mattered.

 

Before the pills take, he keeps returning to what M told him, in the crisp tone she took with the double-oh's:_ You work without fear of dying or injury, but not a bloody one of you can stand up to the fear of losing so someone you love, and your lot's stunted for it. I'm one of two double-oh's who have managed anything resembling a family in the history of the service, and its because I'm not afraid of the work love takes._


	4. Here Ends  The Lesson

"Have a seat Weatherby" M said, not looking up from the dossier file he was reading.

"I'd prefer to stand," she said, adding, "Sir."

He had perfecting his game face years ago, almost but not quite eliminating his blind. Weatherby made his jaw clench as he looked her in the face over his glasses.

"I'm not going to waste our time pretending we both don't know why your in here. So instead I want you to convince me why I shouldn't strip you of your double-oh status."

"I got Fairchild sir, and his accomplices."

"Killing six of his associates in the process, destroyed countless acres of agriculture land and managed to get yourself video recorded torturing some hired lackey."

"It wasn't torture sir--" she stared to say but he cut her off.

"Oh? Not according to the BBC, the New York Times and countless others news source. I have the bloody prime minister threaten my job because of you are out of control." He swept the stack of newspapers at his elbow across his desk.

"Sir, I needed that information." There was an edge like a glass shard in her voice.

"You got it, but did you ever ask yourself at what price?"

She did not answer, and he thought it was the wisest thing she's done in the past month. Pressure begin to build above his temples; surely even he wasn't this out of control when he was a double-oh?

"Listen, Weatherby," he said in a softer tone, "I know you're out seeking revenge, but you have to control yourself and keep the larger picture in mind."

"Like you did, sir?" she spat. He removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose before responding.

"I see someone has been doing a little bedtime reading. Well, then you should have learned from my mistake and realized that killing all of those I.C.E 9 members aren't going to absolve your grief. The dead don't seek vengeance."

"If I may speak freely, sir?" He searched her face before nodding. Her air of confidence and calm slid away, and she gave him a beseeching look.

"When _will_ it go away?"

Brown eyes met blue, and he saw himself, once, reflected in those hurt, distrustful eyes.

"When you let it, double-oh two. It takes work, more work then learning to do that stunt with the motorcycle."

She smirked, a small smile that was gone as soon as it appeared.

"Your file—" She paused, shifting her body from one foot to another." The information is blacked out but whoever she was--"

"Your questioning something deeply personal Wetherby, and I don't think it's a question about me at all."

She stared at him for a heartbeat, and then nodded. He placed his glasses back as he leaned back in his chair.

"I've made my decision. You are hereby relieved of duty until I deem it necessary. I want you to make the most of it. You're dismissed."

"Yes sir." She turned and walked towards the door.

"Oh Wetherby?"

She stopped, her back turned towards him.

"Don't think of it as getting over it. You never really get over it, you learn to live with it."

"Is that from personal experience M?" she asked.

"What do you think?" he asked.

She nodded, and left his office. M rocked in his chair with a sigh, and the exhalation of breath not quite sounding like her name.


End file.
